


The Snake in the Garden

by reading_is_in



Category: game of thrones
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 23:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Loras was sent to Storm's End.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snake in the Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Because JeanJaquesFrancois asked me to do more GoTfic and flattery will get you everywere tbh. ;) Also don't you love how all the quasi medieval symbolism makes titles so easy in this fandom? <3

The best day of Loras Tyrell's young life was rapidly followed by some of the very worst. He’d known for some years he’d be Willas’ squire: Garlan was too old, and was already off being a squire for some Fossoway. Though most boys Loras’ age would be sent away to serve at this or that House, Loras loved Highgarden, and his brothers and sister, and he knew that Willas would ask specially for him once he was knighted. Somehow, Loras usually managed to get what he really wanted.

“You’re so spoiled,” Margaery told him when she heard of his appointment, rolling her eyes. She was at her embroidery, and pulled the thread off sharply.

“Maybe people just like me the best,” Loras gave her a dazzling smile. 

She couldn’t help but laugh: “It’s true you have a way, even with Grandmother.” 

Loras nodded. Grandmother was a prickly old flower, but he’d realized from a young age that her word carried more weight in Highgarden than their father’s, so he was always sure to be extra courteous around her. He was quite sure she’d put in a word for him staying to squire for Willas. He was, after all, _very_ charming.  
Loras’ new duties began in earnest on the day of Willas’ first tourney. It wasn’t as though Willas was going to make him scrub his boots or serve him in his chambers or any of that nonsense. He knew Loras had important training to do. Mace Tyrell declared a ‘small’ tourney to celebrate Willas’ knighthood – small by Highgarden standards, obviously. The kitchen staff worked through the night, and the pavilions were a riot of colour and flowers. Musicians from the throughout the Reach arrived a week early to practice – and of course the guests had to be feasted and toasts drunk to most of the knights and ladies before any actual sport could go on. Garlan was back to serve his lord at the lists, but Loras had little time to talk to him – his middle brother seemed to take the squiring business pretty seriously, and when that didn’t busy him, Grandmother wanted to grill him   
about marriage prospects. Willas was embarrassed:

“I hope no-one expects me to win,” he joked, glancing around at some of the seasoned warriors up and down the Hall. There was the famous Ser Andar Royce, and there Ser Corliss Penny, a poor knight who’d been making a name for himself in a series of jousts and melees. At least the Lannisters had sent their apologies, Loras mused, even if they’d managed to phrase the latter as very courteous insult. The other notable absence was House Baratheon. Loras understood there was no love lost between the Tyrells and Baratheons ever since the war, despite the Tyrells swearing fealty. Some people just didn’t know how to accept an apology, he mused.

“I doubt you’re expected to _win_ ,” he said to Willas, “So long as you acquit yourself properly. Which you will,” he added perfect conviction, refilling the wine and water jugs. He was taking Garlan’s lead and trying to behave as squire-ly as possible, what with all the high lords around, and Grandmother watching him from the corner of her eye. 

“Acquit, is it?” Willas teased him, raising one eyebrow. “That’s a big word for a little squire.”

“Oh shut up. I can _read_.”

The feast dragged on, and Willas was obliged to stay until a certain hour, being the guest of honour and everything. 

“Right – go to sleep,” Loras instructed him, the minute Grandmother signalled it was appropriate they could leave. “And sleep well.”

“Thanks for the advice,” said Willas dryly. “Perhaps if you’d let me drink more I’d be able to.”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” Loras said, then: “Wait – Willas – are you nervous?”

“Well – yes! I’m about to joust in my first tourney! In front of half the nobility of Westeros!”

Loras stared at him uncomprehendingly: “But you’ve been training for this your whole life, Willas.”

“Not especially, brother – that would be you. _I’ve_ been doing my duty. Well,” he patted Loras’ shoulder, “Good night. See you in the morning.”

“I’ll wake you up at the crack of dawn,” Loras promised.

“Much appreciated, I’m sure.”

 

*

 

The master-at-arms kept a critical eye out as Loras helped Willas into his armour. Not that it’s needed – Loras knows exactly what to do. It was a gorgeous suit, the finest plate engraved with the flower sigil of Highgarden, and a complex design of entwined roses from shoulder plates to cuirass. The dressing pavilion was similarly splendid.

“I suppose Lana Flowers will give me her favour,” Willas said gloomily. “Her father practically dropped her in my lap when our father took me to visit.”

“Don’t you want her favour?”

“Not particularly.”

“So don’t take it.”

“It….doesn’t exactly work like that, Loras.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll survive somehow,” Loras rolled his eyes and handed Willas his greatsword – realizing with regret that he was still not strong enough to wield it properly himself.

“Well,” said Willas resignedly. “Wish me luck, brother.”

“Luck!” Loras said. “But you won’t need it.”

And indeed Willas started well at the joust, unhorsing his Arryn opponent at the first charge.

“Yes! Tyrell! Highgarden!” Loras cheered, practically jumping up and down in his place at the side of the lists. Margaery had escaped the family seats to join him, and shouted and clapped just as loudly. Next a hedge knight beat Ser Stuard Florent on points: a surprise victory. The crowd cheered – Ser Stuard wasn’t particularly popular. Loras didn’t know the next few contenders, but then Ser Meryn Trant unhorsed a young Fossoway with almost lazy disdain. The crowd cheered reluctantly: the match was so uneven as to seem unsporting.

“Is he alright?” asked Margaery, standing on tiptoes to see as the defeated knight was helped from the field, helmetless.

“He looks fine,” Loras dismissed: “I already joust better than that.”

“And don’t we know it dear.”

“Don’t call me dear.”

“Shh, Willas is up again – hey, who’s that?”

Willas’ next opponent wore the orange-red Sunspear of the House of Martell. He had a long face with strong features, quick dark eyes, and long, gleaming black hair pulled back from his face.

“A Drinkwater?” Loras had seen that name in the list. But the heralds announced the stranger,

 

“Prince Oberyn Martell.”

“Prince,” Margaery snorted. “Such a cheek. I hope Willas puts him in his place for that alone.”

Loras didn’t have time to answer. The riders were mounting up – charging – Willas’ lance connected but only just, and Oberyn easily kept his seat. The second time, Oberyn’s lance struck the center of Willas’ shield – and Willas fell.

“Ohhh,” Loras sighed in disappointment, dropping his eyes, but then Margaery was screaming, and he looked up to see Heather, Willas’ horse, shriek and list to the side. The realization of what was happening came with a sick cold shock. Willas’ foot had caught in the saddle as he fell. Heather was falling - onto him.

The whole tourney seemed to take a collective gasp, then there was a rush of activity. Half the crowd stood up, including father, and several members of House Tyrell dashed onto the field. Someone was sent to get Maester Lomys – his apprentice was already at Willas’ side. Margaery had clamped her hands over her mouth to stop herself screaming again, but looked like she might cry. Oberyn Martell stood to one side, utterly calm, looking on the disaster as though it were of mild interest to him. The stupor that had come over Loras broke and he raced towards the crowd gathering around his brother – 

\- only to be bodily intercepted by Garlan.

“Don’t look,” said Garlan grimly, barring Loras’ path and holding onto him by the forearms.

“Let me go!”

“You can’t help,” said his middle brother. He sounded scared but sure. “Grandmother says you’re to stay out of the way until the Maester says.”

“Stay – out of the way!” Loras’ horror gave way to outrage for a moment – though what exactly he thought he was going to do was beyond him.

“Look after Margaery,” Garlan said firmly, and indeed, the youngest Tyrell was already tripping onto the tourney field. Forcibly stopping himself from shaking, Loras turned around   
and marched back to Margaery, hurrying her out of danger. As they left the lists, a shiver ran down his spine and he turned –

\- to see Oberyn Martell, watching him now, still as a snake poised.

 

*

 

Willas would never ride a horse again. He’d be lucky to walk. His left leg and hip broken in several places, the all but shattered where Heather had landed on him. 

“Of course, one must look at these things philosophically,” said Maester Lomys: “The young ser is indeed fortunate, if one considers that he could have taken the steed’s weight on his torso or head and been killed.”

‘But how will he live?’ Loras thought, despairing. What sort of life would it be for a man, to lack the use of his legs, confined to beds and chairs…he tried to imagine it for himself and physically shuddered at the notion. Maester Lomys was one of the most skilled in the Seven Kingdoms, and it was testament to his skill in setting the complex and multiple breaks that Willas only ran a moderate fever.

“I want to see him,” Loras kept demanding. It had been three days since the accident, and so far only hteir mother and the healers had been allowed to attend the sickroom. And Grandmother, of course.

“He won’t know you,” Grandmother said. “Maester Lomys is giving your brother dreamwine: he is generally asleep.”

“I don’t care,” said Loras, then amended his tone when she gave him a sharp look. “I still want to. For me.” Then: “Please.”

Oleanna Redwyne appeared to consider, as though it were her personal decision (and like most matters at Highgarden, it probably was). In the end, Loras was allowed a few minutes, being very quiet. He didn’t know if it made him feel better or worse. Willas was very much alive – and very much asleep, terribly pale, the bulky dressings on his leg obvious beneath the covers. One side of his face was all bruised and scraped. Loras had too look away. He’d never imagined his eldest brother could look so – vulnerable.  
It was clear that Willas would not be well for a very long time. Where did all this leave Loras? He supposed Willas couldn’t be un-knighted, thus he was still technically his squire, but suddenly all of his duties were useless here. Willas wasn’t the only one robbed by that – that Martell, Loras thought viciously. He had never hated anyone before, but Loras decided he hated the Prince of Dorne, and always would do. On the very night of the tourney, he’d sworn before the seven gods that Oberyn Martell would pay for what he had done to them. He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when. But Lannisters weren’t the only ones who remembered their debts.   
His questions were answered in short time. Grandmother and father called him into the high hall the next day. Garlan was there too, looking solemn, and some of father’s retainers.

“Loras,” Grandmother got straight to the point, as usual: “How would you like to be squire to Renly Baratheon?”

Loras’ eyes widened: “The King’s brother?”

“Yes, one of them. Well?”

“Well, I,” Loras’ mind raced. He’d met the King a couple of times, and silently thought him as boorish and embarrassing as everybody implied. The second time he’d been blatantly drunk and thought Loras was a girl. They said that Lord Renly was ‘like his brother’. That – didn’t sound promising. His seat was Storm’s End, Loras remembered, which sounded dismal: far, cold and wet. He’d scarcely see Highgarden for years. Or Margaery.

“No, I don’t want to,” he said honestly. 

“This is an extremely gracious offer, Loras,” Mace Tyrell said.

“For the King’s own brother to take a Tyrell squire will no doubt go a long way towards…healing any…unpleasant feeling remaining between the houses,” said Edwyn Flowers, one   
of his father’s chief advisors.

“What – _how?_ ” Loras exclaimed. “I was barely _born_ when the siege happened. How am _I_ going to help that?”

“It’s symbolic, dear,” said Grandmother, in that falsely airy voice which meant she’d made up her mind and no more would be said on the subject. “You’ll leave for Storm’s End with   
Ser Bayard and Ser Willam in the morning.”

“In the morning! But – I haven’t packed! What do I-!” Last week everything had been wonderful. Now his whole life was falling apart because of that Martell bastard.

“In truth, life thus far has been rather easy for you, Loras,” Mace coughed and cleared his throat. “You’re not a child anymore, and it’s time you did your duty as a Tyrell.”

Loras glared daggers at his father.

“Oh do cheer up,” said Grandmother. “Your father’s right for once. Besides, I’ve met this young lord on several occasions.” That look came over her wrinkled face: the one that meant she knew plenty more than she was going to say. “I have a feeling you won’t find this service too hard to bear, dear.”

And Loras was dismissed to pack.

 

 

 

_ End _


End file.
